ed himself, drew a pad of paper to him, and began
scrawling figures at the full speed of his pencil. And, as he wrote, he
was murmuring to himself: "There is a way out--there must be!"

It was while the husband was thus occupied that the door opened softly,
without any preliminary knock, and the wife stepped noiselessly into the
room. The anxiety that beset her was painfully apparent in her bearing
and in the expression of her face. Her form seemed drooping, as if under
shrinking apprehension of some blow about to fall. The eyes of amber,
usually so deep and radiant, were dulled now, as if by many tears; the
rich scarlet of the lips' curves was bent downward mournfully. She stood
just within the doorway for a brief space, watching intently the man who
was so busy over his scrawled figures. At last, she ventured forward,
walking in a laggard, rhythmic step, as do church dignitaries and
choir-boys in a processional. By such slow stages, she came to a place
opposite her husband. There, she remained, upright, mute, waiting. The
magnetism of her presence penetrated to him by subtle degrees.... He
looked up at her, with no recognition in his eyes.

"They've gone, dear?" She spoke the words very softly, for she
understood instinctively something as to the trance in which he was
held.

Hamilton's abstraction was dissipated as the familiar music of Cicily's
voice beat gently on his ears.

"Yes--oh, yes, they've gone." His voice was colorless. His eyes went out
to the array of figures that sprawled recklessly over the sheet before
him.

But the young woman was not to be frustrated in her intention by such
indifference on his part. She spoke again, at once, a little more
loudly:

"Tell me: Did you come out all right?"

Hamilton raised his head with an impatient movement. Evidently, this
persistence was a distracting influence--a displeasing. There was
harshness in his voice as he replied:

"Did I come out all right? Well, yes--since I came out at all. Oh, yes!"
His voice mounted in the scale, under the impulse of a sudden access of
rage against his enemies. He spoke with a savage rapidity of utterance:
"And I can lick Carrington any day in the week. Why, I've already put
him out. It's Morton--that old fox Morton who's got me guessing.... What
do you think? They even had the nerve to threaten me. Of course, it was
in a round-about way; but it was a threat all the same. They threatened
to close up the Hamilton factory. Gad